The Assassini

Zusatztext "A classic thriller."-- Publishers Weekly. "Adds new meaning to the word riveting."-- Atlanta Journal And Constitution . "Masterfully plotted and brilliantly told! The Assasini's suspense is unrelenting and its satisfaction is guaranteed."--Ross Thomas author of The Fourth Durango Informationen zum Autor Thomas Gifford Klappentext It is 1982. In the Vatican! priestly vultures gather around the dying Pope! whispering the names of possible successors. In a forgotten monastery on Ireland's gale-swept coast! a dangerous document is hidden! waiting to be claimed. And in a family chapel in Princeton! New Jersey! a nun is murdered at her prayers. Sister Valentine was an outspoken activist! a thorn in the Church's side. When her brother! lawyer Ben Driskill! realizes the Church will never investigate her death! he sets out to find the murderer himself--and uncovers an explosive secret."The Assassini. An age-old brotherhood of killers. Once they were hired by princes of the Church to protect it in dangerous times. But whose orders do they now obey? "The Assassini marks the triumphant retum of a master at the peak of his powers--the first novel in more than a decade from the acclaimed author of "The Wind Chill Factor. 1 DRISKILL I remember that first day quite clearly. I was summoned to lunch at his club by Drew Summerhays, the imperishable gray eminence of our well-upholstered world downtown at Bascomb, Lufkin, and Summerhays. He possessed the clearest, most adaptable mind I'd ever encountered, and most of our luncheon discussions were both illuminating and amusing. And they always had a point. Summerhays was eighty-two that year, the age of the century, but he still ventured down to Wall Street most days. He was our living legend, a friend and adviser to every president since Franklin Roosevelt's first campaign, a backstage hero of World War II, a spy master, and always a confidant of the popes. Through his close relationship with my father I'd known him all my life. On occasion, even before I'd joined the firm and subsequently become a partner, I'd had his ear because he'd watched me grow up. Once, when I was about to become a Jesuit novice, he'd come to me with advice and I'd had the lack of foresight to ignore it. Oddly enough, in such contrast to his austere, flinty appearance, he was a lifelong football fan and, particularly, a fan of mine. He had advised me to play a few years of professional football once I'd graduated from Notre Dame. The Jesuits, he argued, would still be there when I retired but now was my only chance to test my ability at the next level. He had hoped that fate might deliver me to the New York Giants. It might have happened, I suppose. But I was young and I knew it all. I'd spent my Notre Dame years as a linebacker, caked in mud and crap and blood, all scabby and hauling around more than my share of free-floating anxiety and rage. Two hundred and fifty pounds of mayhem stuffed into a two-hundred-pound body. Sportswriter hyperbole, sure, but Red Smith had so described me. The fact was, in those days I was a dangerous man. Nowadays I am quite a civilized specimen in my way, kept in one psychological piece by that fragile membrane that separates us from the triumph of unreason and evil. Kept intact and relatively harmless by the practice of law, by the family, by the family's name and tradition. Summerhays hadn't understood the simple truth that I'd lost whatever enthusiasm I'd ever had for playing football. And my father wanted me to become a priest. Summerhays always thought that my father was a bit more of a Catholic than was, strictly speaking, good for him. Summerhays was a realistic Papist. My father, he told me, was something else, a true believer. In the end I hadn't played pro football and I had gone off to become a Jesuit. I...

"A classic thriller."--Publishers Weekly.

"Adds new meaning to the word riveting."--Atlanta Journal And Constitution.

"Masterfully plotted and brilliantly told, The Assasini's suspense is unrelenting and its satisfaction is guaranteed."--Ross Thomas author of The Fourth Durango

Autorentext

Thomas Gifford

Klappentext

It is 1982. In the Vatican, priestly vultures gather around the dying Pope, whispering the names of possible successors. In a forgotten monastery on Ireland's gale-swept coast, a dangerous document is hidden, waiting to be claimed. And in a family chapel in Princeton, New Jersey, a nun is murdered at her prayers. Sister Valentine was an outspoken activist, a thorn in the Church's side. When her brother, lawyer Ben Driskill, realizes the Church will never investigate her death, he sets out to find the murderer himself--and uncovers an explosive secret."The Assassini. An age-old brotherhood of killers. Once they were hired by princes of the Church to protect it in dangerous times. But whose orders do they now obey?
"The Assassini marks the triumphant retum of a master at the peak of his powers--the first novel in more than a decade from the acclaimed author of "The Wind Chill Factor.

Zusammenfassung
It is 1982.  In the Vatican, priestly vultures gather around the dying Pope, whispering the names of possible successors.  In a forgotten monastery on Ireland's gale-swept coast, a dangerous document is hidden, waiting to be claimed.  And in a family chapel in Princeton, New Jersey, a nun is murdered at her prayers.  Sister Valentine was an outspoken activist, a thorn in the Church's side.  When her brother, lawyer Ben Driskill, realizes the Church will never investigate her death, he sets out to find the murderer himself--and uncovers an explosive secret.The Assassini.  An age-old brotherhood of killers.  Once they were hired by princes of the Church to protect it in dangerous times.  But whose orders do they now obey?

The Assassini marks the triumphant retum of a master at the peak of his powers--the first novel in more than a decade from the acclaimed author of The Wind Chill Factor.

Leseprobe
1
DRISKILL
 
I remember that first day quite clearly.
 
I was summoned to lunch at his club by Drew Summerhays, the imperishable gray eminence of our well-upholstered world downtown at Bascomb, Lufkin, and Summerhays. He possessed the clearest, most adaptable mind I’d ever encountered, and most of our luncheon discussions were both illuminating and amusing. And they always had a point. Summerhays was eighty-two that year, the age of the century, but he still ventured down to Wall Street most days. He was our living legend, a friend and adviser to every president since Franklin Roosevelt’s first campaign, a backstage hero of World War II, a spy master, and always a confidant of the popes. Through his close relationship with my father I’d known him all my life.
 
On occasion, even before I’d joined the firm and subsequently become a partner, I’d had his ear because he’d watched me grow up. Once, when I was about to become a Jesuit novice, he’d come to me with advice and I’d had the lack of foresight to ignore it. Oddly enough, in such contrast to his austere, flinty appearance, he was a lifelong football fan and, particularly, a fan of mine. He had advised me to play a few years of professional football once I’d graduated from Notre Dame. The Jesuits, he argued, would still be there when I retired but now was my only chance to test my ability at the next level. He had hoped that fate might deliver me to the New York Giants. It might have happened, I suppose. But I was young and I knew it all.
 
I’d spent my Notre Dame years as a linebacker, caked in mud and crap and blood, all scabby and hauling around more than my share of free-floating anxiety and rage. Two hundred and fifty pounds of mayhem stuffed into a two-hundred-pou…